Fallen
by HalfshellVenus1
Summary: Lincoln/Sara Het, post-series Alternate Universe: It started with a look...


Title: **Fallen**  
Author: HalfshellVenus  
Character/Pairing: Lincoln/Sara, Michael (**Het, Dark, Drug mentions, AU**)  
Rating: M  
Summary: _It had started with a look..._  
Author's Notes: This was for Round Two of the Prison Break Fic Exchange, for **becisvolatile**. It was written midway through Season One, so it has no relation to the show's canon after that point. Instead, it's a "what might have been" based on what we knew during S1.  
Also for **prisonbreak100**, for prompt #69, "Thunder."

x-x-x-x-x

It had started with a look.

No—it had started with a touch, back in Fox River.

Or… it had started before that. Before they met, before she even knew what to call her weakness for the seductive ways of dangerous men.

It was a mistake waiting to happen.

And it wasn't even the one she was trying to keep from making.

His love is rarely quiet. It is strong, intense, out-of-bounds the same way he is.

His hands on her are rough, even when he tries to be gentle. She hates that she loves it, that it brings up the fire in her so easily, so quickly. She courts danger in his touch, knowing that he could hurt her if he wanted to. He has bruised her accidentally. She likes knowing that more than she wants to admit.

It makes her feel alive, the way she tempts Fate just by being with him. Because part of that danger she can't stop seeking is always there, inside herself.

He is the echo, not the source. The mirror, not the cause.

They met up three weeks ago, after the pardon and the fallout.

She was buying coffee between Saturday errands, and he was there in the crowd of people leaving the El station.

"Lincoln?" she'd called. He'd been surprised to see her. His face passed through puzzlement to regret to simply enjoying the sight of her, there in the open sunshine.

He'd moved hesitantly, but she was faster, leaving her drink behind and rushing to him. She'd been through all the horrible steps with him, had waited to check off his final moments. But they had been spared that dreaded outcome. He was _here._ Justice had won. And thank god she had not been complicit in his murder after all.

She'd grasped his arms—their strength, their vitality thrumming under her fingers. His chest rose and fell, the heat reaching her through their clothes. She could smell the warmth and spice of him, see the depths in those soulful eyes. Her arms were around him before she realized it, before it could embarrass her.

Nose pressed to his neck—to the scent and pulse that she suddenly wanted to claim—she felt a primal jolt slice straight through her. She brought her hand to his face, pulling him down, and she kissed him without hesitation. _Oh god._ The sheer size of him was overpowering. Intoxicating. Irresistible. _Oh no._ His lips were soft and strong. Skilled. Hungry. Taking her over as her logic went silent under his assault.

She was already lost, from the moment she'd touched him.

Responsibilities, destinations were forgotten. She pulled his arm, dragging him into a bank.

They'd fucked in the Ladies' Room while he pushed her against the door hard enough to mark her. Hard enough to keep anyone else from coming in.

Hard enough… that she would never get the feel of him out of her, that she would chase that rush and thrill and essence of him to her own destruction, if that was what it took.

She couldn't pretend to regret it afterwards.

He knew. He could see it in her eyes, had felt it in her response.

Whatever it made her, or him, they were drawn together by the same basic set of needs.

They had gone back to his place that afternoon, barely made it through the door before they were on each other all over again. She rode him, scratched him, _bit_ him, and the sight of him taking it—loving it—set her off into a climax of throaty yells that would have shamed a five-dollar whore.

She'd stayed the night, losing the next day to an endless chain of coupling that had left her raw and desperate and _hooked._

They said little—avoided excuses or apologies. Words were useless, unnecessary. They might just be lies, if it came to that. There was nothing sensible or explainable in what they wanted from each other. It just _was._

She'd gone back during the week twice, distracted and breathless on the long trip in from the Prison. She raced up the stairs, pounding the door with adolescent urgency. And Lincoln had opened it, yanking her inside without so much as a "Hello."

It was after nine before they settled down enough to eat, and it was all she could do not to abandon all dignity and just forget to go home.

It was a mark of reason, that she had the sense to keep up pretenses. That she took the extra steps to avoid returning to work in the same clothes as the previous day. She kept her eyes on the fact that she was not that far gone. She was not so drawn-in that she'd forgotten to maintain her own image.

Then, two weeks ago, they'd taken their first hit together. She had been there the whole weekend, and he'd brought out a stash of pot on Sunday morning. It was heaven, slipping into that _nothing_ with him, drifting for hours. It had been _so long_ since she hadn't had to feel, to even care.

They'd lit up four more times since then. Each time, it was easier to take that step.

And the sex… fucking while fucked-up was a whole other world. It was a dream state, an altered universe. There was so much _more._ Touch, smells, _colors_—it all stretched on so long, so incoherently. Even when the sex wasn't that good, it was different.

And God, how she'd always craved _different._

She didn't care why she wanted it now, or what anyone else would think.

She had run from herself for too long as it was.

It might be Sunday again. It doesn't matter. She is blissed-out, floating, coming back to a sunlit world. Day, night… they cross and fold and drift apart. She is here now, living in the whenever. "Urgent" is as foreign as innocence or propriety.

There's a knock on the door, and she hears it through the haze in her head.

It could be that Lincoln has forgotten his keys, or has his hands full. She climbs up off the sofa and makes her way over, tousle-haired and wearing one of Lincoln's T-shirts.

She opens the door, long legs and lazy smile just ready for—

"Michael?"

"Sara." She sees his shock, before his eyes narrow at the sight of her. "Well. I won't ask what you're doing here, since it's perfectly obvious."

A flash of anger clears the fog out of her head like _that._ Who is he to even-

"Don't you pull that moralizing crap on me. It's not like I owe you anything," she says flatly. Michael opens his mouth to speak, but she keeps on going. "You played me. You _lied_ to me, _used_ me. Did you think we could just move past that like it never even happened?"

"I- I'm sorry about that," Michael admits softly. "I did a lot of things I'm not proud of, things I can't take back. But I was desperate." His eyes lift to meet her. "It was Lincoln's _life._"

"I know that," Sara says. And she does. But it just doesn't matter.

"If I could do it all over again—"

"You'd do the exact same thing," she finishes. "So let's not pretend that it would be any different or better."

"I thought we had something once…"

"Before you killed it with manipulation and deceit? Don't flatter yourself—it was doomed before it started."

"But… I really like you." Michael seems startled by her anger, by her lack of caring.

If she did care, she might give him a sliver of hope. But she knows better now. "You're not my type, Michael. I resisted falling for you because you were a con, but ultimately, I was kidding myself." She crosses her arms coolly. "If you were a con, you'd have had a better chance."

It might be his bewilderment, or just the after-effects of the pot. Something makes her twist the knife a little harder.

"Underneath all your schemes and lies and tattoos, you were never a criminal at all. You're an _engineer._ And there's hardly anything more boring than a strait-laced intellectual with a Savior complex. Your normalcy… is the least attractive thing about you, to me."

She can see the words hitting home, that he knows exactly what she's saying.

"So you picked Lincoln because he's wild and he gets in trouble? You get _off_ on that?" he says.

"Not that it's any of your business," she says, "but your brother is exactly my type. And I definitely seem to be his."

She has never seen Michael look so angry.

"You're a match made in heaven!" His sarcasm is cutting. "Sweeping each other into the sewer with your never-ending race to the bottom!" His face is red, and he is yelling enough to shake the doorframe. "Well, pick someone else to drag down with you. I did not risk my life so that you could slut Lincoln back into doing drugs and sleeping on the streets!"

Sara barely notices the sound of footsteps in her hurry to haul off and punch Michael with everything she learned in self-defense class.

"Fuck!" Michael chokes out.

Lincoln is standing behind him, stunned. "Jesus, Sara, you didn't have to hit him so hard!"

"Does it really matter? If you cared about him, we wouldn't be doing what we've been doing." She rubs her fist with the other hand. "For the last three weeks!" she spits at Michael.

Lincoln peers into Michael's face anxiously, reaching for his shoulder. Michael jerks away, betrayal in his eyes for both of them.

"I'm sorry," Lincoln says quietly. "I'd hoped you wouldn't find out."

Michael has no patience for this. "That still doesn't change the fact that you did it!"

"I know, I know. But… I never wanted to hurt you Michael," Lincoln says earnestly.

"Oh, please!" Sara cannot contain herself any longer. "If he matters so much to you, why didn't you step back from the beginning and see if things would work out for Michael and me?"

"Because a drug-addict who can't wait to jump into bed with an ex-con like me isn't good enough for Michael!"

She can barely see through the red glare filling her mind. "You hypocritical son-of-a-bitch!" The crack of her hand across Lincoln's face is like a whip.

"You are not that noble," she seethes. "So let's not pretend that's why you made that choice."

"Maybe not, but that doesn't make it any less true."

"That's not even the worst part," Michael bursts out. "She's clearly high, and I'm guessing she didn't get there alone. How can you go right back into that? You know where it got you the last time!"

The fact that Michael is right makes Lincoln madder. "I will never—_never_—be who you want me to be. I can't live up to your expectations!"

"You could _try._" Michael's words are clipped. Sara can see his eyes as she gathers up her things. Those eyes are blue, blazing, eviscerating. "And don't put this off on me. I'm not asking you to run a corporation. I'm asking you to work harder at surviving more than just a few days at a time."

"How I run my life is not your responsibility or your business!" Lincoln storms.

"If you're asking me to stop caring, I already tried it. It didn't work!" Michael's glare speaks of sacrifices, lost innocence. Of pain.

Lincoln's sigh fills the air as Sara ducks into the bedroom to throw on her clothes. Disjointed words filter through the door.

"... did you think you were doing!"

"…live for me…"

"I can't do this—"

"Michael, wait!"

When she rounds the corner, Lincoln is gone, his footsteps thudding down the stairs.

She stands there for a moment, forgotten. Whatever it was, it's over. A fling. Sublimation. Some kind of revenge-fuck.

It doesn't even matter. It's over, and she has a life to get back to.

She marches out the door, taking the stairs with short, angry steps.

She walks right past them on the sidewalk as she goes, the drama continuing without her.

It was never about her, and it isn't even the first time.

But she'll be damned if she lets this happen again.

- fin -


End file.
